On Holiday
by schlimazel
Summary: And bleed, the company lost the war today. [SeamusxRon]


**Weasley & Finnigan.** Standard disclaimers.

* * *

It's a summer for lovers; not quite a poseur for the Bohemian Revolution, but the worst is over and everyone just wants to get to the good parts.

Seamus hops, skips, and grooves his way down the sidewalk like no one is watching, because no one ever is nowadays-- they're too caught up in the hubbub and bubble of the neighbour's garden, or Mr. So-In-So's scandalous visits to Mrs. Whocares. Seamus is vivacious and brash and beautiful and a Gryffindor to the core, and Seamus is the colour of raspberries in July.

Ron walks.

"Fancy seeing you here," is Seamus's nonchalant observation upon arrival to his destination in front of the sewing shop on fifth avenue. X marks the spot.

Ron only nods, his boyish grin a little frayed by war and death and other nasty things. He is susceptible to those sorts of things, you know. That's why he's here. "It's...good to see you, Seamus." He voice is a little frayed, too, but Seamus doesn't notice or care. He is susceptible to those sorts of things, too.

There are things to say and things not to say, and Seamus can't help but get them all wrong.

"Your hair looks good like that."

"I'm sorry about. Y'know."

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"Do you want some ice cream?"

Seamus is Seamus, and he can't seem to stop himself before it's too late. But Ron is already shaking his head and Seamus is already pulling on his hand, and they're half-way through the door to Seamus's apartment before Ron even thinks to protest, but he's already come this far and it would be useless now. So he sits down at the kitchen counter and notices that the flat isn't half as shabby as he half expected and lets Seamus dig around in the freezer for the chocolate ice cream he put in a month ago and forgot about amidst Ernie Macmillan and Ernie Macmillan and Ernie Macmillan, past present and dashed future all compiled in three separate little Ernies.

"You don't have to do this," is Ron's feeble comment, because he thinks something should be said, and the talkative Seamus isn't talking for what must be the first time in his life.

"Don't be stupid." Seamus is still a schoolboy when he tries to put the spoon in the unyielding surface of frozen cream and sugar. He's attacking it now, slamming his palm against the handle of the utensil and coming away with a bruised hand. "Damn it!"

Ron cracks and smiles a little, leaning across the table to take the carton and place it under the sunlight coming through the window. Seamus is quizzical and illogical, and Ron explains that the ice cream has to melt a little before it can be eaten, to avoid spoon-bending ("A little late for that, eh, mate?") and tooth-breakage ("Too late for that, too." Seamus flaunts the silver replacement with amusement.).

"I guess we'll have to skip the ice cream," says Seamus half-apologetically, running his hands through Ron's pretty red hair that makes Seamus think of summer and cherries and warm things and Ron isn't sure what to do because, he's never done this before. He isn't even sure he wants to, and says this, but it isn't about Ron anymore and it's all about Seamus-- Seamus, kissing his ear and his neck and his shoulder, working at the buttons on his shirt. Ron's pretty sure this is what would be called "too fast", and he's going to walk away except Seamus does _that_ with his fingers, and he doesn't really want to leave anymore.

Seamus must have had a lot of practice with Ernie, because they're on the floor now and Ron _still_ isn't sure what he ought to be doing with his hands or his legs or his eyes. Hermione never straddled his waist and run expert hands over his chest, and Lavender never opened his shirt and put her hands _there_, and he's pretty sure girls aren't supposed to have erections. Seamus obviously doesn't care what Ron does or doesn't do, though, because he's whining, licking, coaxing, and looking beautiful here on the kitchen floor.

But, there's something not-right, in the middle of all these absent ethics, so Ron figures it out and grabs Seamus by the hair. The kiss doesn't verify anything, doesn't make this anymore right or wrong, but Ron can't find the disappointment in him and when his human sanity leaves him, his hands are free to slip down, down shoulder blades and spine and ass, until Seamus is grinding against him and it's all instinct from there.

When it's over, Ron is sprawled across Seamus without a smile nor a frown; Seamus is sighing; the sun isn't quite as high as it was. Seamus pushes a summer kiss with minimal tongue to Ron's wet mouth, and Ron is unresponsive except for a little sleepy breathing. But then he's up, buttoning and on his feet, taking the ice cream and the spoon and wondering whether he should acknowledge Seamus's offer for another go sometime, now that he's a "gay veteran." But he doesn't, just eats his ice cream without any particular face, suppressing thoughts of Seamus and girls and Harry and everything he carries on his back from the Year He Doesn't Want To Remember, because remembering would imply some sort of deviant masochism. No, he doesn't want to remember, and no, he doesn't want to screw around. He just needs some time to be empty.

Seamus gets it and situates himself in the chair across from Ron who isn't his, and figures he can wait forever-long for that Ron to come back, because it's summer and he might be in love and everything's going to be okay.


End file.
